Resident Poets

You there,

you with your folder in your hands,

you

with your toolbox.

You there,

you who think you don’t matter.

You are the butterfly whose wings flutter and

cause winds to blow and rain to fall.

You are the sunshine to someone.

You are the apple falling on Newton’s head my friend.

The wind that flows from you

blows

harder than you could ever

imagine.

You are not

just one domino that knocks over another in a long endless chain.

You are

a voice in the wilderness,

a ripple in the stream,

a wave in the ocean my friend.

You are a single purple flower growing

alone in a forest,

a ray of sunlight.

You are a poem,

A poem that matters to someone,

a factor in someone’s life.

You

matter.

I am worn weathered wood.
I have seen the storms,
felt the hot sun,
endured the wind until
I am cracked.
My colours have faded into
burnt siennas from red under
the sun’s rays.
I have seen the owl at night and
the hawk in the day for
I am a window in this wood,
this weathered wood.
I am a window or
I am nothing.
I am a window.
Sneek up, take a peek
into my panes.
She will be there, sitting
at the table
having her tea
or holding her cat
quietly

***

AND TO LAST

and to last
through
the moment
to last through
the
moment
and to notice the
moment
the flower
the
rose
purpose
you ask of purpose
ask not
ask the rose
***